


I Can Feel Your Heart Beat

by vinesse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinesse/pseuds/vinesse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was meant to be a thirty day challenge that was cut short... I apologize! The only prompt filled was Tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Feel Your Heart Beat

You push open the door to the tattoo shop, and you almost turn around immediately. It's clean, there's framed examples on the wall and nice chairs to sit in and _you are so not prepared for this shit, goddammit John fucking Egbert._

John pokes his head around the corner just as you step backwards to leave though, and you're trapped, foiled by the stupid bell above the door. You glare at it hatefully, before turning to your friend, back step transforming into an awkward shuffle-slide to the left, like you weren't just contemplating turning and running, who, me? _Nah, shit bro, just checking out this cool art on the wall,_ and you stop right there with that train of thought because you're fooling exactly no one.

Egbert laughs and walks forward and suddenly there's a hand around your wrist, leading you past the front counter, deeper into the tattoo parlor and you feel yourself break out into a cold sweat. "Shit, John, Egbert, my man, I dont think I-"

Your rambling's stopped by the sight of the chair in a small room, and you gulp. John looks at you strangely as he shoves you into the seat. "Dave, calm down, alright? You'll be fine!"

Studying the full sleeve tattoo your friend has, you take deep breaths. "Will it hurt?"

"No shit it'll hurt, you're being stabbed by," John pauses, just a second, before he continues, turning to face away while he studies his equipment. "Uh. A tattoo gun. But you're not going to die from it, ok? And you know I won't purposefully hurt you."

You nod along, trying to fool yourself, and you pass him the drawing he designed for you weeks ago. You've put off the trip down here too long, and he's gotten antsy, ever since the two of you got drunk and swapped promises the day you turned twenty five. You think back to that night, and vow you'll never taste tequila again. Holy shit, that was some good stuff though. You wonder if John would let you get drunk before you let him needle your skin. You sneak a glance at his back and decide he probably wouldn't.

John turns, holding the tattoo gun, and you turn white. You can literally feel your blood drain from your face like a waterfall, and he raises his eyebrows at you while he sets the machine aside. "Dave, it's ok, alright? Don't worry. Besides, I have to draw it on you first, remember?"

You nod, and shed your shirt automatically. It's cold, and you stiffen a little, holding the fabric to your chest. It smells like your cigarettes, and John's detergent since it was his turn at laundry, and you slowly let it seep through your senses, trying to calm your shit. John doesn't say anything, just starts to lower the chair so it resembles something like a bed. You lay back and stare up, counting the ceiling tiles while John sits beside you, leaning over your chest.

"You cold?" He asks, and you shake your head. You don't trust yourself to say anything, if you open your mouth you might scream. He shrugs, and presses the marker tip to your skin, and you bite your lip. He's silent, ignoring the way your body tenses up, and starts to carefully draw, occasionally glancing to the paper with his design. You turn your attention to John instead, carefully studying the way his nose is a little bit upturned, the way his eyes turn up just a little, and the way he keeps brushing his bangs out his eyes. His glasses have a smudge on them, and you grip the sides of the chair to avoid reaching up to clean them. You try to come up with a word for the color of his skin and the contours of his face and the little space between his scrunched eyebrows, and all that comes to mind is 'Afuckingdorable' and you think Karkat would be proud.

All too soon John pulls away, and you don't look down at the purple marker above your heart. John pinches your side, voice exasperated. "Dave, you've gotta look at it to see if it looks ok!"

Glancing down, you study the shape of the gear. It's big, centered on your chest, and you're not an artist so you think it looks pretty damn good. It's simple, broad strokes, and you hope to fucking god it won't take long to ink because you'll throw up, you seriously will. "It's fine," you tell John, because he's watching with a worried expression, and it's just your stupid fear of goddamn needles that's wrong with this whole situation. You want the ink, you want John to do it, you could just do without the needles.

He nods and smiles, relieved, and starts setting up. You watch him set little pots of ink up, and get a pair of gloves, and about this time you start counting ceiling tiles again. You close your eyes behind your glasses, close them tight, and grab the arms of the chair when you hear the buzz of the tattoo gun.

It hurts like a bitch, and you fight hard not to move a muscle. John hums in appreciation to your brave efforts, and you so want to flip him off because he definitely underplayed the pain factor. You start to feel sick, and it's not the pain, it's the fact there are _needles piercing your skin and_ -

It stops. You open your eyes, and John is looking at you, eyes nervous and worried. "Dave, calm down, let's just take a break. You're halfway there though, but. Ugh. Break, ok?" He helps you sit up, wipes at your chest, and you don't look down for fear of blood. John passes you a juice box, and you stare blankly at him while he shuffles around. He throws you a glare before rolling his eyes heavenward. "Stop pouting, I'm sorry I only have grapefruit. We just keep it around for the people who faint."

That keeps you quiet and you sip angrily on your straw. Fucking philistine, what the hell was he thinking, _grapefruit_. Honestly. You're working with amateurs here. You crush the box when you're done, and you look down at the cartoon fruit on the front, shaking your head. Jesus.

John takes it from you and tosses it in the garbage, and you faintly recognize one of your mixes is playing over the stereo in the shop. You raise one eyebrow questioningly, and John just smiles in response. You've gotten good at talking without words. Egbert presses you back into a supine position, and you pride yourself on the fact you don't shriek like a little girl when the machine in his hand comes to life again.

Half an hour later you're regretting ever even _meeting_ John fucking Egbert, and your teeth are clenched and your palms are sweaty and you're-

"Done."

"Done?" You echo, opening your eyes -when did those close- to look up at John. He looks like a smug bastard, wait that's his default expression, and he peels his gloves off. You'll make fun of their pink color later. You let him wipe off your chest gently, and damn the skin's tender, and you sit up, looking down.

Your breath hitches in your chest, because it looks perfect. One finger raises to trace the gear's teeth, it's exactly like your old weapon, and you're so not tearing up over this, not possible.

John looks away, thank god, because you don't need him to see you wipe your eyes, holding your sunglasses with one hand. You stand up, still looking down, and John's at your side now. He pinches your side, and you look down because even after his stupid teenage growth spurts, you still came out on top, if only by an inch or two or five.

"Guess you like it, huh? Brings, I don't know, tears to your eyes?"

That little bitch.

He laughs, softly though, and he nudges you one more time. "I'll teach you how to take care of it when we get back home, alright? By the way, what'd you tell your boss to get a day off to get a tattoo?"

You look at him smugly, voice superior. "I'm a goddamn master in the art of lying, babe." You get a flat look in return for that statement, so you shrug, giving up the truth. "Just told her your car broke down and needed to get home."

He laughs at that, and leads you to the front of the shop. You slide the money across the counter to him, and he passes your change back. "You picking up dinner, or heading straight home?"

"Heading home," you reply. "Can you get it?"

"Yeah. Chinese ok?"

"Does that mean you're making it at home?" You get a punch in the shoulder for that one, and you figure it was worth it. John grumbles and carefully tapes gauze over your chest at the door so you can put your shirt on, and he holds your glasses for you while you slide it over your head. You flinch when the gauze presses against your new ink, but you figure it's better than rough cotton rubbing against it.

John holds your sunglasses behind your back when you look at him, squinting in the light, and the little shit smiles before tapping his cheek. You sigh loudly and roll your eyes upwards before kissing it, and you expect it when he turns so your kiss lands on his lips. He laughs, and you bend your head to nibble his neck gently, and his laugh transforms into a soft sigh. You slide an arm around his waist, and the two of you stay like that for a few minutes, until the door chimes open and a girl gasps as she narrowly avoids running into your back.

"Oh, sorry!" The girl's blushing, you can tell from her voice, you don't have to turn around to know that.

John laughs as he wiggles out of your grip, sliding your glasses onto your nose for you, and he smiles at the girl as he slides behind the counter, wiggling his fingers at you. You flip him off before you leave, and you hum as you walk down the sidewalk.

You keep a hand over your chest for the rest of the day.


End file.
